


Sewage of the Organism

by slitmyfilthythroat



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Desperation, Frustration, Humiliation, Male Solo, Other, Relief, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 09:07:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14398839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slitmyfilthythroat/pseuds/slitmyfilthythroat





	Sewage of the Organism

"It's one of those nights, isn't it... Oh fuck, please no... I'm so tired."

He groans and shudders, alternating between cold sweats and burning goosebumps. There he lay, curled into a fetal position on his couch, irritated by the late night talk show he can't find the energy to click off with the remote that somehow wound up on the other side of the room. He's being wracked with waves of agony and desperation, it hurts so bad and he feels so empty and so filthy. All the buildup is tormenting his mind and gunking up his thinking processes. Nights like this are rare and, god, do they destroy him.

His teeth are grinding and stupid tears of frustration and shame try to squeeze out. He clamps his lips shut as another moan gets choked in the back of his throat and little strangled sounds squeak out of his nose. He won't give his body the satisfaction of making him cry out. He wants to ride this out, he wants to ignore it, stuff it down, repress repress repress it, as usual, but when it gets this bad he knows it's only a matter of time before he can't function without getting it all out of his system. And suddenly his body is vibrating with needs and his hips give one shameful buck. He gasps for air and realizes he's been holding his breath trying to stay still. His neck and shoulders hurt from the tension and the headache forming is dizzying.

"Not tonight... no- not tonight!"

A glare and a snarl burst out of him as he jumps up and starts pacing around the couch, one last gambit. Maybe if he can stay moving he can stuff it down, make it go away. But flashes of kisses that never happened blotch his face red and sweaty, they whiten his vision and make his ears ring like so many slaps to the face. He lets out one last scream of frustration and kicks the couch hard enough that he hears something snap- was it a board or something in his foot- it doesn't matter. He sinks to his knees sobbing over his loss over control. He can't take it anymore.

He knows it's time to retreat to the closet of shame.

He stumbles to his feet, his legs start to carry him out of the living room and down the hall, as if his body were some shambling zombie moving only on reluctant instinct, his mind in a haze. He doesn't bother to turn on the lights. He stumbles through the dark, his arms wrapped around his own cold shaking body, claws dug into his own arms in some vicious mockery of affection. This is where nobody follows, this is where even his delusions know not to tread, this room is far away from anybody cuffed into his basement. 

A simple broom closet. From the outside, a simple padlock that his shaking fingers fumble with as complicated curses trip and choke out of a dry throat. He hates this. He knows he'll be in a better mood by morning, he knows he'll have a clearer head tonight, he knows his aching muscles will be relieved, but still he shies away, his head bowed as his hand clasps the door handle. He slumps against the door for a moment, wondering if he can resist this time, if maybe he can develop the will to stop doing this indefinitely. It's been a very long time since he last time he did. Months, probably. 

But he jumps, startled, as he realizes the very thought of how long he's deprived his body is making a shrill whine come out of his throat. The slight damp spot on the front of his pants, like a starving man's mouth watering at the scent of a microwaved hot dog, disgusts him. He knows he needs to get this over with or it'll keep coming back stronger and stronger, and at unexpected times. He can't bear the thought of anyone seeing this. He must purify himself- regain the ability to deny accusations of his needs.

He clenches his eyes shut and pushes open the door to his confessional where his sins of the flesh will find their way out in a babbling chorus. He slams the door shut behind him and scrambles to slide all the bolts and chains into place. And then he drops to his hands and knees in a heap of sobbing and moaning, here where nobody can see and the ouside world doesn't matter. There is no light to turn on in here, no window, no chair, just a bare wooden floor, a few simple accessories, and his shame.

He ties the ballgag into place to stifle his own screams.

Now he's violently shaking, he knows what's coming next and he can't bear to feel the stickiness. He fumbles around for the latex gloves. And he pulls a few paper towels off the roll. More hesitation, his mind is warring his with body in one last useless gambit for control. He goes perfectly still in the darkness, strangled by his desperation and regrets. There is no love here, no redemption, only pain and relief. And he hears two tiny pats as his tears hit the floor.

There's nothing left but to forge ahead. No turning back.

His wails crowd out around the rubber ball in his mouth as he rips his pants down and strangles the intruder demanding his attention. He can feel his guts twisting in anticipation. It's almost as if he's trying to rip it off and it hurts, just a bit, but his body is bucking so desperately against the touch he's deprived it of that he knows this is what he needed. He's screaming, he knows that his screams couldn't possibly be any more noticeable than any other scream coming from his house, and he gives in, he folds, he collapses to the floor on his side as his burning body squirms. He knows he's been holding back so long that this will only take a few minutes, but each passing moment feels like a century. When will the explosion clear his head? 

Drool is stringing out of the side of his mouth where the straps of the ballgag are holding it open, tears and sweat and snot mingle in his fit of fury and desperate indulgence. Foggy thoughts of how much better it will feel to get cleaned up afterwards console his disgust. He can feel his eyes rolling up into the back of his head. Why won't it go? He keeps feeling so close so ready to fire off... please not this time... but the throbbing Back There tells him otherwise. He needs to satiate another monster to get the relief he needs.

Still furiously yanking, he sits up, and reaches for the knife. He draws the edge gently up his leg, and the moan of a different level of excitement burns his ears. For a moment, he plays with it, just gently tapping the side of it against his thigh. There's something about holding it that makes this feel less horrible, almost in control again. But he knows this is only for so long. He slams the tip of the knife into the floor as hard as he can, burying a solid inch or two into the hardwood. It's sturdy and won't jiggle loose until he kicks it out later.

He unwraps the condom. The handle is smooth and long and once it's wrapped with the latex, he drops a dollop of lube on. This is the part that disgusts him the most but he's too far gone into the haze of satisfying his needs to hesitate now. And now the tingling pulse in his hungry hole will be satisfied. On his knees now, in front of it facing away, he starts to lower himself down onto the handle. 

Sharp little gasps and rapid breathing. He grabs himself again, this time stroking slowly, carefully. He can feel his own heartbeat in it, and time starts to click by so much more slowly. A gentle push. Almost in. He nearly chokes and leans back up, and then... sliding down again. So careful, so slowly... and then ecstatic gasps as it pushes past the entrance. He doesn't need to bounce yet, just the feeling of having it inside is so overwhelming. Instead he furiously tries to coax himself into finishing, violent cranking motions, maniacal laughter and sobbing fighting each other for domination in his crowded mouth. And then, up and down, slowly at first, then faster. He's going to finish. He grabs the wad of paper towels- He's so close-

He's shrieking like a demon in a register he rarely hits, and the waves of release shake him to the core. He barely has the sentience to shove the paper towels in front of his tip, catching the vile substance before it hits the floor and stinks the place up permanently. He slides up and forward, and spent, drops forward onto his face, barely registering the impact. He's floating, he's never felt this good in his life, he's not having thoughts, he's not having shame, every muscle in his body has gone limp and he can't register place, time, or reality itself. No faces flashing across his tormented mind, no emptiness, desire, or agony. Everything has become unmoored from its hefty weights and he drifts on cloud 9 for just a few moments in time. He needed this. He deserved it.

And then, all at once, thoughts crash in like a wrecking ball through a stained glass window. He can't move, he's frozen with the mortification of what he's just done, the defeat he gave into, and the realization that he had just tasted a few moments of relief that were over now. He starts trembling and rips off the gloves, rips off the ballgag, and backs into a corner, away from his humiliation, yanking his pants up to cover his shame. He hugs his knees and starts rocking back and forth, eyes wide open with trauma in the pitch blackness. He wants out of this place but the motivation to stand is overcome with the creeping horror of the evening's events and the thought of continuing life is overbearing. This is not who he is, this is not what he needs, this is a horror film within a horror film, this is his worst nightmare, and he let it happen. He buries his face into his knees and lets the tears silently flow. 

He feels better... but at what cost?

He needs a shower so badly.


End file.
